


Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot

by xylodemon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-30
Updated: 2006-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:09:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Crowley starts over. Again, and again, and again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot

**Author's Note:**

> For the mods at [](http://go_exchange.livejournal.com/profile)[**go_exchange**](http://go_exchange.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Crowley's New Year's resolutions taken from [this](http://www.harpercollins.com/author/AuthorExtra.aspx?displayType=essay&authorID=3417) Neil and Terry snippet on the Harper-Collins website. Title from _Auld Lang Syne_.

**Resolution #1: I must accept that Super-Gluing valuable coins to the sidewalk and then watching events from a nearby café is not proper demonic activity.**

This last one went down like a tonne of bricks.

Smiling, Crowley leaned back in his chair. It was the sort of wrought-iron death trap that passed for outdoor seating at an upscale coffee shop, but it was comfortable, because Crowley assumed all chairs he used would be comfortable. The threat of rain lingered in the form of heavy, greyish clouds on the horizon, and Crowley sipped his double non-fat upside-down vanilla latte. It wanted more foam.

Just across the street, an overweight man wearing an unfortunate suit was in the process of heaving himself up from the pavement. He glared murder at a giggling knot of teenage girls as he straightened and brushed dirt from his hands and knees, then stalked toward his briefcase, which had escaped him when he fell and skid into a nearby letterbox. From the spectators' seats, Crowley could see a faint blush creeping up the back of his neck and over his heavy jowls. Judging from his briefcase -- which fairly reeked of alligator, even from Crowley's distance -- this fellow fancied himself a successful businessman, and successful businessmen didn't pick up money off the street.

Except that they did, if they thought they could do it without being seen.

This fellow tried to nick it casually as he passed, probably hoping that no one would notice he was scrounging for loose change if he never broke his stride. And it might have worked, at that, if the coin had been inclined to join him. As it was, the coin wasn't, and after a rather funny moment where the man's body tried to continue forward while leaving his arm behind, he overbalanced himself, and managed to fall backward and arse over tea kettle at once.

In the last hour, Crowley had seen several variations on a theme, and most ended in a spectacularly humorous fashion.

One woman dropped her purse, with the idea of scooping up the money as she bent to retrieve it, but she stayed stooped over a bit too long, and was nearly trodden on by a man running to catch his train. Another tried to kick it along with her, which resulted in a both a stubbed toe and a good, old fashioned stumble and fall. One enterprising young man pretended to be tying his shoe, which would've been a fairly convincing ruse, had he not abandoned all pretence in frustration and started tugging at the coin with all ten of his fingers.

Humans really were the most ridiculous creatures.

The next victim tottered into view; and elderly woman armed with a cane and a handbag half her own weight. Her hair was the same slate-blue as the sky, and if she wasn't arthritic, Crowley would eat one of Aziraphale's books. She paused, eyeing the coin with intent, and Crowley waved more latte into his empty cup. He smiled. He could already hear her joints popping.

This was almost as much fun as the Boston Tea Party.

**Resolution #2: The same applies to rearranging the letters on wayside pulpits.**

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Crowley, a bit crossly.

The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness made a sound that was too close to a snort for Crowley's tastes.

"I told you not to mess people around."

And really, Adam Young had a stare that could knock the wind out of a lesser being. Crowley didn't like to admit he was a lesser being, and while he didn't need to breathe, he could've done without feeling like an insect pinned to a felt board.

"That's not messing _people_ around. That's messing _things_ around," insisted Crowley. "And it wasn't me."

"Course it was," said Adam, with more certainty in the tilt of the earth than any twelve year-old had a right to. "Couldn't've been no one else."

"Of course it could've been!" said Crowley, retreating further behind his sunglasses. "What about your merry band of miscreants? That sort of thing is right up your alley!"

"We wouldn't do nothin' like that," said Adam solemnly. At his feet, Dog growled in what could've been agreement. "That's kid's stuff."

"Precisssely my point," said Crowley, and he was going to cut out that tongue, if it didn't stop forgetting itself under pressure. "Why would I indulge in such juvenile behaviour?"

Adam's fists settled on his hips. Je-- Sa-- _Someone_ wept.

"Or your rivals?" offered Crowley desperately. "Jordanites, aren't they?"

"Johnsonites," said Adam flatly. He was not impressed. "An' I know it wasn't them. Greasy Johnson can't spell on his life."

Silence descended, punctuated by the vague rustle of leaves. The church which was serving as the backdrop for this pantomime loomed large behind them, watching the proceedings with more silent judgement than a building should be able to muster.

"It wasn't me," said Crowley. "I don't know why you're blaming me for this strange and isolated incident."

Adam frowned. "I might not, if it wasn't every church in town."

"Every church," said Crowley slowly. He hadn't expected _that_.

"Uh huh," replied Adam. "Every one. Even the Mormons."

Crowley shuddered. "I don't know what to tell you, there. I won't even _drive_ past a Mormon church if I can help it."

"Well, either way, it's been done, and I know you had somethin' to do with it, so you'd best be fixin' it."

"Right," mumbled Crowley, turning his attention toward the church.

It wouldn't do to smile just now, but he did like it when humans took one of his ideas and made it even _worse_.

  


**Resolution #3: Try to come up with something as good as cell phone ringtones. Or "Googling yourself".**

Crowley poured himself a bit more sake. It was the _koshu_ sake he liked best -- aged and slightly sweet.

"I don't know why you bought it, honestly," said Aziraphale. The two chopsticks trapped between his pudgy fingers held a perfectly-crafted salmon roll hostage. "It rather seems like a waste."

Crowley smiled. "Who said I bought it?"

 _It_ was a portable telephone. Not a car telephone, but a proper mobile telephone -- the advert alleged it would work anywhere, including the wilds of Scotland -- and one of the first. It was black, boxy, and roughly the size of a remote-control car.

"You old serpent," said Aziraphale sharply, jabbing the still-hostage salmon roll in Crowley's direction. Crowley hated the way Aziraphale played with his food. "Please tell me you didn't steal it."

"I didn't," said Crowley. And he didn't steal it, if you went by a strict definition of stealing that meant breaking and entering, slipping the desired object into your pocket, and sneaking off the premises in the dead of night -- black clothes and balaclava optional. Crowley did nothing of the sort, and thus; the phone was not stolen. "It was a gift."

"Mmm," said Aziraphale, which could've been directed at the thrice-blessed salmon roll, since he'd finally deigned to eat it. "It's not a gift if the giver isn't willing."

"Oh, for... _really_ , angel. Would I waste a perfectly good possession on a mobile telephone?"

"I don't know. Would you?"

Crowley sipped his sake. "No, I wouldn't."

"Mmm."

"It's a bit of work, a proper possession. More taxing than performing miracles, I would think," said Crowley. Aziraphale's chopsticks clicked together like a crab claw. "More work than I'd be willing to do for a bit of plastic. Although" -- he paused to smile at the phone where it sat between them on the table -- "I could almost think my side thought of it. I would think it, if I didn't know the abacus was still their idea of recent technology. It's a wonderfully sinister idea."

Setting his chopsticks aside, Aziraphale studied the phone with renewed interest. "Why?" He gave it an experimental poke, frowning at it like he expected hell-fire to sprout out of the antenna. "It doesn't look like much."

"Think about it," said Crowley. "It's a telephone you can bring anywhere. Which means, people can call you anywhere. Any time, day or night. When you're eating. When you're sleeping." Aziraphale shrugged, because he wasn't overly attached to either of these human activities, and Crowley went in for the kill. "When you're reading."

"No rest for the wicked," murmured Aziraphale.

"Exactly!" said Crowley. "And of course, this proves what I've said about humans all along -- that their own brains are far more twisted than the darkest corners of Hell. They went to all the trouble to create ansaphones so they wouldn't have to talk to their Great-Aunt Tessie, and then they go and make it so their Great-Aunt Tessie can phone them on the toilet."

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. "Why would people bring the telephone to the toilet?"

"Why do people dye their hair purple and put fish-hooks in their ears?" countered Crowley. "Because they _can_. From what I've learned about humans, that's all the reason they need."

Aziraphale's next was rudely interrupted by a loud noise. It sounded a bit like the ringer from an old, rotary-dial telephone, only electronically-generated and infinitely more irritating. Crowley glanced at his new telephone in something close to horror -- Hell couldn't possibly have this number already -- but the noise persisted well after Crowley switched the thing off. He figured it must be someone else's, a theory that was quickly proven right when a tall, scruffy bloke on the other side of the restaurant broke into an animated conversation while dining alone.

"Is yours that... indiscreet?" asked Aziraphale, directing a frown at the back of the other bloke's head.

Crowley's phone made that exact noise. It also made two others: one similar to an ice cream truck gone off a cliff, and one that could only be described as someone having a go at Big Ben's bells with a sledgehammer. Crowley demonstrated all three, and Aziraphale shook his head at each in turn.

"Like I said, I could almost think my side thought of them," said Crowley. "Not the ringers, of course. My people would have come up with something far more dreadful. If you're going to drive a man mad with technology, you have to do it with style. Music, maybe."

Aziraphale paused in the act of securing another salmon roll. "Music?" He looked somewhat alarmed. "Proper music, or be-bop?"

"Both," said Crowley brightly. "All sorts of music. Their favourite songs, beat to death by the tuneless warble of electronics. And they'd have to hear it every time their grandmother interrupts them while they're having sex to talk about her bunions." Crowley was quickly warming to the idea, and was wondering who he needed to speak with to see it done. "That, my friend, is a fate worse than the Seventh Level of Hell."

"The Seventh?" asked Aziraphale sceptically.

Crowley shrugged. The Seventh Level was a bit much, even by demonic standards. "The Fourth, at least."

Across the restaurant, the other bloke's phone rang again. Several people turned to favour him with a hard look.

"They're too noisy and too much bother," said Aziraphale sensibly. "I rather don't think they'll catch on."

**Resolution #4: I must encourage greedy people to use the term, "Low-hanging fruit," because that's just like old times.**

Crowley's stylish Mayfair flat had an equally stylish refrigerator, but for his part, Crowley mostly ignored it. He did plug it in once in 1994, and not to answer the age-old question of whether the light stayed on after the door was shut -- he already knew the answer to that -- but because the refrigerator Aziraphale owned at the time wheezed like an asthmatic mastodon, and Crowley wanted to know if his own refrigerator would do the same when introduced to electricity.

(And no, it didn't. It was Crowley's refrigerator, so it knew what it was on about.)

Because of this refrigerator -- which was stocked with expensively exquisite delicacies that never went off -- Crowley didn't need to shop for food. Of course, he also didn't need to eat, which rather made the refrigerator useless, even if powering it with raw firmament did cut down on expenses. Food was something the human he pretended to be could cheerfully go without, but all that aside, he patronised the local green grocer's almost weekly.

He didn't go to shop, of course. He went to browse.

Crowley preferred his current body to the others he'd inhabited over the course of six thousand years. It was a bit taller than his second, more than a bit taller than his fourth, a good deal thinner than his fifth, and much better looking that the whole lot combined. If he was feeling charitable -- which, of course, was impossible, because demons never felt charitable -- he would say he was fond of it. And deep down, in a dusty corner of the still-angelic part of his brain he never liked to examine too closely, he _was_ fond of it, except for the tongue, which was quite obviously defective, and one other tiny detail that probably shouldn't bother him as much as it did.

It was allergic to apples.

The infernal bureaucracy usually lacked the wit for truly ironic gestures, but Crowley was fairly certain that somewhere, someone fancied themselves clever.

This particular green grocer was part of a large chain that was spreading through London like an insidious vine, creeping through every crack and crevice until it held the area's need for sundries neatly in its iron clutches. The ambient temperature was set to something appropriate inside an igloo, and the walls and floors were vicious in their pristine whiteness. The foodstuffs were categorised, compartmentalised, and arranged through a system that made sense only to its divisors, and the displays -- created with the sort of precision that suggested the use of a slide-rule -- stretched toward the vaulted ceiling like perishable temples to the all-mighty pound.

Above was to blame for the free market. They'd thought it was a smashing idea at the time, and a perfect opportunity for humans to exercise their free will. Of course, they hadn't considered Crowley, or the effect he would have on what started as an innocent exchange of goods and services. Crowley couldn't take all the credit for commercialisation -- he'd had a bit of help getting the whole thing off the ground -- but he did his part. He received a commendation for it, and he couldn't walk past a chain-store or a mass-market factory without revelling in a good, old fashioned spot of demonic pride.

He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat and headed toward the fruits and veggies.

Scholars and theologians have spent centuries arguing one simple fact: Was the apple from the Tree of Knowledge red, yellow, or green? A rather colourful conundrum, if incredibly pointless, and like many pointless questions -- including the one about the light inside a refrigerator -- it was one Crowley knew the answer to.

If this was a test, Crowley would pick None of the Above.

Crowley suspected the apple was meant to be red, in that it would've been red, if it had been a normal apple living under normal circumstances. But any value of normal was something a fruit from that particular tree was never allowed to see. The very weight of the Knowledge hidden inside its sweet flesh and ripened it before its time, darkening the skin into something deep and darkly purple. Saying that apple was red was like saying the sky was blue -- it got the job done, but it rather didn't convey the whole experience.

He found the apples shortly, after perusing a rather stunted selection of parsnips and tempting an intricately crafted stack of satsumas to collapse like a house of cards. The satsumas abandoned their post immediately, rolling forth like an invading army, but an invading army whose soldiers took care not put themselves in Crowley's way, even if it meant breaking rank. He ignored the yellow apples entirely, narrowed his eyes at the green ones -- they gave his body the worst hives -- and planted himself squarely in front of a leaning tower of reds. They weren't the real thing, but they were close enough, and in an odd way, they reminded him of a place that was never quite home.

After a moment, Crowley was joined by a small child with an unruly mop of brown hair and most of his lunch caked in the corners of his mouth. The top of his head didn't quite reach Crowley's hip, and he ignored Crowley's pointed stare in a way only the truly young and hapless could.

"Nigel!" called his mother, who was pushing a trolley that's basket was evenly divided between two more children and a large variety of canned goods. "Don't touch anything."

Nigel nodded in a way that suggested he was not yet in full control of his motor skills, but his wide, green eyes never left the apples.

"Go ahead," said Crowley quietly. "Take one."

Nigel looked at Crowley, spared a glance toward his mother, then turned his attention back to the apples. Crowley rather thought they looked fit to eat. He also thought they might be calling Nigel's name.

"Can't reach," said Nigel petulantly. His hand snaked out, but darted back as the wheels of his mother's trolley gave a formidable squeak. "Can't."

"I think you can," said Crowley. He pointed to one at the foundation of the stack, which became the home of a gloriously fat and slimy worm before his finger was fully extended. "I bet it would taste nice."

Nigel reached out but missed, as he was trying for one a bit higher on the food chain.

"Take one from the bottom," advised Crowley. "The lowest ones are always the easiest."

Nigel went straight for the worm. The rest, of course, boiled down to a shower of fruit, a stifled scream, and a smiting that was very nearly righteous.

**Resolution #5: This year, I will get a desk near the window.**

Crowley was not Hell's only field agent above-ground. This often seemed to be the case -- particularly to Aziraphale, who didn't get out much -- but it wasn't. Crowley was simply the most productive.

Also -- and despite the suspicions of many -- Hell was not already on Earth. Hell did, however, have a Human Liaison Office in central Manchester. It had specialised departments for Temptation and Possession, and while most people walked right past it, the wrong person might notice it if they happened down the wrong dark alley at the wrong time during the wrong phase of the moon.

It wasn't much, as office buildings went. It was the sort of squat and dilapidated brownstone that brought the word abandoned to mind, which was a rather good word for it, since that's precisely what it was. It had been a fire station before it was gutted by -- of all things -- a fire, and the average demon didn't go in for things like repair and maintenance. It was the victim of both broken windows and severe water damage, and Crowley was fairly convinced it was one good, stiff wind from crumbling into a pile of infernally charged dust.

Maybe Crowley would be lucky. Maybe that good, stiff wind would come during the next policy briefing, and discorporation would befall every Prince and Duke of Hell.

Crowley waved himself into what passed for the entryway, and started down the dark and twisting hallway that led to his office. It was carpeted, after a fashion; what wasn't charred enough to show the warped wood underneath was likely original to the building's erection in the early 1900s. Most of the scorch-marks looked to be as old as the plumbing -- which protruded from the walls in the strangest places -- but a few were more recent, since Dagon was the sort of showy bastard who felt it should rain sulphur everywhere he went.

He passed the lounge. Wendur, Lord of the Bats, Earl of the Upper Curses, napped on a mouldy couch, snoring with a sound like an ancient and rotted tree falling on the roof of a brand new home-estate. Crowley left him where he was; he laid down for that kip one hundred and thirty-seven years ago, and as far as Crowley could tell, he had no plans to move in the immediate future.

Crowley hated this place. He also didn't need this place. His co-workers needed things like timetables and deadlines and a general sense of purpose, because they were fourteenth-century minds who were predisposed to sloth. Crowley never received regular assignments, but he kept himself busy on his own. He wasn't industrious, or anything; he simply didn't have much else to do. He didn't have hobbies, as such, and a demon could only take so much daytime television.

He felt it was best to stop in every so often -- otherwise, he'd come in one day to find someone had moved his desk to the hose room.

They had no respect, his co-workers. Of course, they didn't understand what he did. They popped into St James Park when the mood struck, possessed some poor sod walking his dog, and called it a century. They complained about Crowley, because according to them, he never seemed to be doing anything, but Crowley got more work done in a week than they managed in hundreds of years. It took talent to reroute Underground trains or send a shop's expected delivery to Iceland or make crop-circles in the shape of a pentagram. They just couldn't see it, because they still thought in terms of plagues of locusts and pillars of salt.

"Afternoon, Mr Crowley."

Anyone who believed a succubus to be a sultry siren so beautiful she could seduce a priest right out of his collar had never been introduced to Crowley's secretary. Her face was both swarthy and unfortunate, and her hair was roughly the colour of dried blood. She was the exact size and shape of a letterbox, and Crowley suspected a drunk man could pilot a lorry through the gap between her two front teeth. Her desk had two telephones; a black one for general use and a red one that only dialled Downstairs. A large stack of papers waited patiently at her elbow.

"Your messages," she said dully. She offered him the type of plastic rubbish bin that frequented household kitchens, piled to the brim with slips of pink paper.

Crowley waved her off. Anything dire would've been redirected to the Blaupunkt. "Did I miss much?"

"Let's see. When were you in last?"

"1953."

She shrugged, and flipped through her calendar. "I don't think so. A few tube strikes."

"Did those."

"Labour union disputes."

"Guilty."

She paused and tapped a page on her calendar. "Gonmog stopped in. Wanted to speak with you."

Gonmog was an Under-Duke of something or another; Crowley didn't much like him. "When?"

"1985. Had an assignment he thought you'd be interested in. Said it wasn't his thing."

"Of course," muttered Crowley. Hell's higher-ups had no patience for quiet expressions of Evil. They always wanted a big, flashy finish, and couldn't be arsed to incorporate for anything less that Sodom and Gomorrah. "What was the job?"

She shrugged again. "He didn't give me the details. Something about Coca-Cola. He thought you might want it, because it came with an all-expense-paid to The States."

Crowley rolled his eyes and banged open the door to his office.

The interior was both sparse and stylish -- thanks to his sparse and stylish thoughts -- and looked very much the way his flat would look if it grew up to be an office. It was also colder than Crowley thought was strictly necessary, and dusty from roughly fifty years of disuse. His desk was aged mahogany polished to a shine, and it was neatly organised, which came from it never being used. The light on his ansaphone blinked at him balefully. The digital display informed him four hundred and fifty-six messages awaited his attention, and as far as Crowley was concerned, they could continue as they were. Behind his desk, a ficus wilted quietly in the corner.

It needed more light, that ficus. Crowley didn't particularly enjoy sunshine -- not the way the angel thought it ought to be enjoyed, anyway -- but plants seemed to need it. He tried to manifest himself a window the last time he dropped by, but it did no good, in terms of the ficus. The location of his office was to blame; windows to the left or rear gave him a view of an adjacent brick wall, and a window to the right was just a license to peep into Wendur's much-neglected office. Wendur had a proper window, not that he'd woken up long enough to notice.

Crowley sighed. The door closed of its own accord.

"Well, I'm off. Hold my calls."

His secretary was not surprised. In fact, she was the exact opposite of surprised. She didn't even blink. "Fifty years, then?"

"Make it a hundred," said Crowley. And if Wendur was still asleep in 2043, Crowley's office was moving house.

**Resolution #6: I will try to understand why Hell is a no-smoking area. I just think it's ridiculous having to stand around outside the gates, that's all.**

A dark and somewhat sulphuric haze lingered along what might have been the horizon. The ground was greyish and dusty, and vaguely gravelled along the beaten path. Mausoleum-like structures loomed in the distance, decaying as they stretched to meet the black and starless sky. The heat was a weight, leadened by the orange-red glare of an uncontrolled blaze. Noise threaded through the stifling air: the buzz of insects, the screech of bats, the shrill and occasional scream of the lost.

Crowley lit a cigarette and leaned against a wrought-iron fence that would give Edgar Allan Poe pause.

By definition, Crowley wasn't a smoker.

He'd done if a few times, when the job demanded. He first went about it in the early seventeenth century, but only out of necessity -- it was nearly impossible to convince humans to pick up a habit you didn't have, yourself -- and again in the late nineteenth century, for almost the same reasons. The 1920s found him smoking again, as did most of the 60s and 70s, but then, it was almost a defence mechanism. Then, tobacco had so ingrained itself into human society that in most places and social situations, not smoking attracted unwanted attention.

Not that he had anything against smoking. Some people thought it was a filthy, nasty habit, but Crowley was all for filthy, nasty habits, at least in general terms. And it wasn't like he had to worry about cancer, or anything. It just seemed like a lot of bother. White walls and white furniture were prone to yellow when exposed to cigarette smoke, and as Crowley learned in 1926, it was nearly impossible to get the smell out of the Bentley's leather interior.

No, Crowley wasn't a smoker, but he tended to have one right before returning to Hell. It seemed like the thing to do. It also took the edge off.

Which was why he was lurking outside the gates like a brand new demon who rushed off for his first assignment Topside and discovered, upon returning, that he'd forgotten to write down the entry-code.

Ridiculous, these bureaucrats. Bubbling pits of tar every ten feet and raging infernos as far as the eye could see, but Hell forbid a nervous demon about to tangle with upper management light a fag on the Devil's property.

And it made no sense, of course. The last time Crowley checked, Lucifer smoked two packs a day.

Crowley dropped his butt on the ground, taking care not to squash it out, and lit another. This was his first trip back since the nastiness with the Apocalypse; it wouldn't hurt to _really_ take the edge off.

He heard a discreet cough to his left, and turned.

"EXCUSE ME. WOULD YOU HAVE A LIGHT?"

"Yeah," mumbled Crowley. He handed it over, taking care not to look the fellow in the eye sockets.

"THANK YOU."

Crowley shifted uncomfortably. "No problem."

"WHAT ARE YOU IN FOR, IF YOU DO NOT MIND ME ASKING?"

"Centennial Employment Review," replied Crowley woodenly. He didn't even want to think about it. Sure, he started two wars, invented Glam Rock, and convinced millions that polyester pant-suits were fashionable and attractive, but he also averted the destruction of mankind. "What about you?"

"MEETING OF THE HORSEPERSONS UNION," he said. "WE FEEL WE ARE PAST DUE FOR A PAY INCREASE."

"Good luck with that," said Crowley. "You'd think Infernal Payroll has never heard of a living wage."

"WE ARE PREPARED TO STRIKE. WE WILL HOLD UP TRAFFIC THROUGH THE SHADOW OF THE VALLEY OF DEATH IF WE MUST."

Crowley shivered. That stretch of demonic highway made the M25 orbital motorway look like a backwoods country lane.

"I THOUGHT I WOULD HAVE A SMOKE BEFORE WE GET STARTED. SHAME THEY DO NOT ALLOW IT INSIDE. I CANNOT SAY I UNDERSTAND WHY."

"Yeah," said Crowley. "Neither do I."

**Resolution #7: On the orders of Head Office I will encourage the belief in Intelligent Design, because it upsets everyone.**

Aziraphale's back room was a mystery. A celestial enigma, if you will.

Crowley understood the bookshop proper; in theory, at least. It housed old books, and establishments that housed old books tended to be dusty, draughty, and generally unpleasant by design, and since Aziraphale didn't actually want to sell any of his books, it followed that he would expand on these traits until it approached an issue of health and safety. What did not follow was how the back room seemed to suffer from the same disease. Aziraphale _lived_ there -- if never sleeping and not really eating counted as living -- but in Crowley's opinion, the only thing liveable about Aziraphale's back room was the wine cabinet.

"Don't you dare say ineffable," muttered Crowley darkly.

It was almost midnight. Crowley wasn't exactly counting, but if he was, he would have to admit he was roughly four hours behind schedule.

"I wouldn't dream of it," replied Aziraphale, a bit archly.

Aziraphale was to blame, of course. He usually was, not that he was ever aware of it. Well, he was at least partially to blame. The fault could mostly be laid at the feet of conversational drift, but Aziraphale -- who leapt from tangent to tangent like a manic, ethereal frog -- was the root cause of said conversational drift. Crowley leaned back in his chair, which creaked in complaint, and nursed his wine, a surprisingly heavy Pinot Noir. Demons didn't hold with virtues if they could help it, but Crowley knew that currently, patience was the best course.

And there, the Arrangement was to blame. After so many long years, a certain familiarity was inevitable. Aziraphale knew Crowley too well, which made manipulating him exceedingly difficult.

Crowley rather didn't like doing it, either, but he chose not to dwell on why.

"I simply think it's a pointless debate," continued Aziraphale. "At least for us. Humans may find purpose in arguing Creationism, but the poor dears don't know any better. We do."

"I'm not arguing Creationism," said Crowley. Often, it was easiest to appeal to Aziraphale's need to hear himself talk. Once you got him going, it was just a matter of nudging the conversation in the right direction. "I've not forgotten how the world was made."

Aziraphale sipped his wine. "What are you arguing, then?"

"I'm not arguing anything. I only asked about the evidence of Evolution," said Crowley. Aziraphale made a vaguely vexed noise. " _Supposed_ evidence of Evolution, if you prefer, but that's exactly my point. Why did God create what appears to be evidence of Evolution, when that's not what happened? Why did God create a way for science to disprove -- or attempt to disprove -- his existence?"

"It's a measure of faith," said Aziraphale. "If a person believes strongly enough -- in Him and His Word -- then it won't matter what a scientist says about ape genetics or dinosaur bones."

Crowley snorted. "So it's really just a game."

"A test," said Aziraphale sharply.

"You have to admit, it's a bit of a farce," said Crowley. He was close. Very close. "Humans are far too inquisitive for that sort of misdirection. You know as well as I do that they can't take anything at face value. They always want proof. If they have something real to look at, like your dinosaur bones, it shouldn't be surprising when they don't believe in something they can't see."

"Faith," insisted Aziraphale. "Humans have free will. They can choose to believe science, or choose to believe His Word. If they have faith, they will choose wisely."

Crowley's hesitation was so slight it couldn't have been timed by a mortal clock. "What about Intelligent Design?"

"What about it?"

"I'm asking you," said Crowley carefully. Best to keep him talking.

"Intelligent Design is the belief that certain parts of the universe can be explained by an intelligent cause, rather than a natural process, like Evolution," said Aziraphale. "For example: if you assume Intelligent Design, you could say humans have opposable thumbs because they were designed to have opposable thumbs, and not because their hands evolved over time as their needs advanced."

Crowley considered this. It sounded like some New Age clap-trap, but it wasn't Crowley's to question.

"Personally, I think it's fence-sitting," continued Aziraphale. "What's that phrase of yours -- having your pie and eating it as well?"

"Cake," said Crowley. "It's cake. And how do you figure?"

"Well, they're careful not to mention God, of course, since they're purporting this rubbish as science, but the nature of their theories imply the existence of a creator," said Aziraphale. "If you ask me, they're trying to have it both ways. They want to believe, but they want science to prove it."

"Doesn't sound so bad," said Crowley. He kept his voice neutral, but he could see where Below was going with this. The Creation was dangerous ground, and with a theory that catered to both camps, everyone lost.

"It's not _proper_. Not in terms of faith," said Aziraphale. "The point of faith is to believe without proof."

"Mmm," said Crowley. "I wouldn't know. I've not looked into it much."

And there it was: the suggestion formed as dismissal. It wouldn't do to push. Aziraphale had to have the idea on his own.

"If you're interested, I have a few books on the subject," said Aziraphale. He pushed away from the table and headed for a extremely disorganised shelf along the back wall. "They came in not too long ago. They're very recent, and I don't much care for the subject matter, but they're first editions," he said, shuffling through a handful of books. "One of them is signed, I believe. Ah!"

Crowley pointedly didn't smile.

" _The Design of Life: Discovering Signs of Intelligence in Biological Systems_ , said Aziraphale, as he returned. "And _Intelligent Design: The Bridge between Science and Theology_. Both by William Dembski. Also, _Darwin's Black Box_ , by Michael Behe." He set the books on the table in turn. "Knowing you, you'll find them horribly dry."

"I might have a look at them," said Crowley lightly.

**Resolution #8: Stop Googling myself.**

Crowley leaned closer to his monitor as the page loaded. It wouldn't surprise him if...

...ah.

There it was: Crowley-dot-com.

"Of course," murmured Crowley. "I shouldn't have been-- wait. Crowley Maritime Corporation? I haven't meddled with maritime transportation in _centuries_. Logistical solutions? I don't do logistical solutions. I do logistical _nightmares_."

The Crusades came to mind. As did the early incarnations of the Underground.

"What's this now, from the same site?" he asked. "Shipment tracking?" He snorted. "I'm the quickest way to get your shipment lost."

The computer whirred as sympathetically as machinery knew how. To Crowley, however, it sounded suspicisouly like a snigger.

"Well, it seems they still have some sense in the States," he continued. "At least in Louisana and Texas. Though I must admit, it's rather odd for them to be naming cities after me. I haven't been near that continent since Columbus landed."

He scrolled down a bit, and hissed.

"Who's this Aleister bloke?" he demanded. "He's got several listings in a row. I hope it's not who I think it is. I give the fellow every decent idea he ever had, and then what does he do? He steals my name, that's what, and he gets the websites!"

He scrolled down a bit more. Crowley, Louisiana apparently had its own newspaper -- a Crowley Post-Signal -- but Crowley wasn't interested in anything described as 'agricultural-rich'.

"Representative Crowley," he murmured. "The States again, but I might want to pay him a visit. Government types can be useful."

He clicked over to page two. There seemed to be a Crowley County in Colorado, but other than that, it was more of the same. More Representative Crowley, more Aleister Crowley, more Crowley bloody Louisiana.

"Crowley Foods? I don't even need to eat!"

He clicked back to page one and refreshed. Nothing had changed.

"Well, that settles it. I hate having to do this, you know, but it's for your own good."

Crowley set his tea aside and dove inside his modem.


End file.
